The Adventures of Rick and Morty and Sherlock and John
by archaevist
Summary: Rick takes Morty to London for his birthday
1. Chapter 1: the bad beginning

and Conflicting modification on March 29, 2017 at 4:59:09 PM:

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"W-Wow Rick! Thanks for taking me to London!"

Rick was leaning against the wall of the tourist trapped which was still labeled 221b Baker Street. The commercialism and fancy pants outside made him sick, so he took another swig from his flask. Hennesey.

"Y'know Morty, you can get half this crap at Barnes and Noble back in burgerland. Ehhhh, what do you say Morty?"

Morty glared at rick from beneath a pile of Sherlock Holmes memorabilia. Morty had told rick that he'd never been to another country on earth, and rick felt kind of guilty about that. Scanned the kids brain, found an absolute obsession with Sherlock Holmes. "But we can get things from Sherlock Holmes' real house!"

"Sherlock Holmes isn't real Morty."

"I know that Rick, but it's his real house."

Rick glanced over the price tags and took another swig. "I'm not paying for this crap here. Cmon lets get a five dimensional discount!"

And with that, Rick adjusted his portal fun to "one plogon to the bleft" ( a short distance in dimensional travel) and fired a green portal with a phum and pulled Morty through.

"R-Rich you can't just hop dimensions if you don't like the prices! That's like stealing with extra steps!"

Phumn

"Ha-Ha sure I can Morty! Free market baby. Ah, man, they only take sea shells here? I only have a conch and a clam on me."

Phum

"I mean I wish you wouldn't rick. I mean you have money, and it is my birthday-"

Phum

"Do you think I have money because I'm Paying for things Morty? You'll understand when You're older"

Phumn

"Huh" said Rick.

"What?" Exclaimed the short blond man, standing from his laptop.

"Where-" asked Morty

"221b Baker Street, March 29th, 2017, London, England, Earth. And are you traveling in space or time?" Said the tall man with the dark hair and the aquiline nose rapidly.

"Neither. I hate time travel and we've just been traveling bleft in dimensions. And thanks for the 'help,' nerd I have a watch" rick held up his wrist, not looking at The two people whose house they had invaded.

Morty was stuttering. "A-a-a-Are you... Benedict Cumberbatch?"

"The actor? Gets off on pretending he's cleverer than he is? Three inches shorter than me, would you believe it? Heavens no. I'm Sherlock Holmes, and I pretend to be exactly as clever as I am. And this is my associate Watson."

"He pretends to be as clever as he thinks he is," said the man who looked just like Martin freeman said. Morty dropped all his things.

"Blah blah blah. Look, Morty. We gotta get out of here. I didn't realize it, but we tripped right into a meta fictional vortex. We gotta get out of here before-"

"CITIZENS OF LONDON," a squeaky, high pitched voice said outside the window. Sherlock, Watson and Morty ran to the window while rick fiddled with his portal gun, opening the casing with a screwdriver. Outside the window, a huge zeppelin was visible, with a bright yellow face with friendly bulging eyes projected on it. "MY NAME IS MR STEALY, AND I WOULD LIKE YOU TO CHECK YOUR POCKETS!"

Watson and Morty checked their pockets. "Sherlock! My wallet and phone! It's gone!"

Rick looked up from his work. "Are Zeppelins very big here in London?"

"Obviously," Watson hissed.

"Damn." Sherlock whispered, turning his head from the window and closing his eues. "For the past couple of weeks, I've been tracking an increase in pickpocketting. But I never dreamed it'd lead to this. There's still time we can-"

A different voice Purred over the microphone. "With a little help from his friends. Hello there... miss me?" The camera panned back and-

Watson and Morty said "Moriarty! I thought he was..."

"Dead? no, for you see, before I did the deed, I took out a little insurance policy. I am become an Dracula!"

"Egads!" cried Watson. "And who was that yellow thing? An alien?"

"Nah, he's a robot from my dimension. Technically, he's a sapient dildo gone horribly wrong. My daughter hand one and thought it was a psychic parasite and shot him."

Morty nodded. Though he hadn't known that about Mr Poopy Butthole

Sherlock and Watson stared at Rick & Morty. "Really

"What're you going to do Sherlock?" Asked Morty, eyes filled with more hope than he'd ever looked at Rick with.

"Whatever I have to," said Sherlock, who swept on his big black coat and ran down the stairs, one at a time but exceedingly quickly. Watson rustled around in his desk drawer and got out the pistol from the first episode and followed. Morty, eagerly, began following after them.

Rick stopped him. "M-Morty" he belched, "We have to be careful. The BBC Sherlock TV show already contains a high level of Fan Fiction. Something obviously happened recently, VERY recently which has altered the nature of the universe we stepped into. Were any of those books you bought fan fiction? Even if it was very official looking fan fiction! Something by Neil Gaiman or Micheal Chabon. THINK MORTY THINK!" Rick shook Morty.

"W-well when you told me we were going to London for the first time, I got so excited that..." Morty pulled from his pocket a handwritten pile of papers. In Morty's crude handwriting was written "The Super Fun Adventures of Rick and Morty And Sherlock and John." Rick's eyes softened when he saw the crude picture of himself. Then, in a flurry of movement, he tore the papers up. A wind picked up the papers and blew them right out the window.

"This is bad M- _burp-_ Morty. I never told you this Morty, and maybe it's my fault for not doing that. But there is a dimension. A horrible, hideously boring dimension where the only exciting things which happen are horrible, where our adventures are broadcast as a fictional cartoon."

"Are you kidding me Rick? We're on TV?"

"Don't get too excited. They leave out all the best parts. Like the time we fought the blorgons in sector nine?" Both of them looked up, remembering that particular adventure in vivid detail. "Cut from the production schedule. Said it was 'Too violent' and 'needlessly sexual' and 'didn't make sense.'"

"But blorgons distort reality around them so that causality doesn't work?"

"Exactly Morty, and the 'Producers' hated it. And I hate the animation style. And whoever does my voice got it all wrong. And if we watched it, that would be a clip show, ratings would drop. Don't want to think about what would happen to that poor universe then." Rick and Morty stared at the same wall for a full second. "A-anyway Morty, what's done is done. And now we have to deal with what happens next."

"What happens next?"

Rick pointed out the window. "That Zeppelin, Mr. Stealy, and Dracula do not belong here. Soon, the dimensional fabric of this tiny world which is only large enough to host Sherlock for his adventures, is going to begin converting to all kinds of things which exist only in fan fiction. What we have to do is bring about a resolution to this, where we leave happily like a fan fiction. Should be easy." Rick stood up and brushed himself off. "Oh, and be careful. I don't know what kind of fan fiction you read, but here, there's a much higher chance that you'll get romantically entangled with someone you really shouldn't."

At that exact second, Mrs Hudson came into the room with a white kettle of tea. She seemed younger and prettier than Morty remembered from TV. "Anybody want some tea and crumpets?"

Rick walked past her and knocked the kettle from her hand. "No, thanks."

Mrs Hudson's mouth was a perfect O as Morty walked past. He couldn't help staring and muttered "I'm sure it's very nice."

Outside, on Baker street, a bank of clouds was rolling in, right over the zeppelin. Sherlock and Watson stood in the street, and a dramatic wind blew their hair and coats. The zeppelin was approaching, and if you squinted, you could see the dark form of Moriarty standing on top of the zeppelin.

"Let this be our final battle," he whispered, and at that exact second lightning struck and he jumped [moriarty not the lightning] 100 feet from the zeppelin and landed in a superhero landing pose

"I thought the last one was our final battle," grumbled Sherlock. Morty wasn't sure how Sherlock had heard Moriarty. He wasn't sure how _he'd_ heard Moriarty.

"It's getting worse," said Rick.

"What is?" Asked Watson

"The Fanfictioooooo _ooooooh,"_ Morty's helpful explanation turned into a cry of panic. It felt like his face was six faces, but only for about a second. It was still frightening.

"Are you alright?" Watson said. "Come here, I'm a doctor."

"He doesn't need a doctor, he needs to resolve this stupid thing."

Watson looked at Rick for a second, then back to Sherlock, who was squaring off with Moriarty.

"Hate to be a bother," said Sherlock sarcastically, "But I think fisticuffs aren't going to be enough this time."

He was right. Dracula Moriarty, who had donned cool sunglasses, was practicing Katas with a samurai sword.

Morty looked around. In an alley, he saw a sword, just casually leaned up against a stone. He couldn't see the whole blade, but it was probably there.

"Here Sherlock!" said Morty, who ran for the sword.

"MORTY NO!" Rick shouted as Morty wrapped his hands around the hilt and _pulled-_

 _"THE METAFICTION CASCADE!"_

The citizens who had stopped to watch the immanent sword fight all turned at once and said "HUZZAH, HUZZAH, THE ONE TRUE KING OF ENGLAND!" And with their chanting, the walls began melting.

"I'm Hermione Granger, and I'm Prime Minister of Magical England, and what is all this nonsense?"

"Yeah, well I'm springheeled jack and I'm going to breath fire on you and hop hop hop away!"

"I'm Mary Poppins and I won't be having any of this nonsense!"

"I'm Obi-Wan Kenobi and I'm your only hope."

On and on, the characters, shapes and beings filled the streets of London. Morty squeezed through the throng, still holding the sword.

"What do we do Rick?"

"Just ride it out. It won't last forever. It's like drugs. It only hurts you if your brain gets permanently broken. None of it is real."

"Are we real Rick?"

Rick held Morty close. "Of course we are."

After what seemed like forever, there was a tightening, a shrinking of space. And then,

empty whiteness

In the faint distance, Morty could see Rick.

He tried to swim over to him, but to no effect. He closed his eyes. He wished he was closer to Rick, so he could talk to him.

When he opened his eyes, he was floating right next to Rick, who looked perfectly peaceful.

"W-what do we do Rick?"

"Wait until season 3."


	2. Interlude: from nothing

No context

Nothing to take strong stock of

Except the perspective

Tick tick ticking along

Figuring

Is there nothing where once there was something

Here there was a place

Like before

A place? A palace?

Here is a desk in the emptiness

Highly varnished. 18th century design

Throwing shadows behind darkness into the emptiness

Untouched by hands

No scrapes and scratches or bruises where chairs or knees(?) bumped

Clean

On the desk, a sheet of paper

On it

The words

YOU ARE VERY SMART

-am I? Alright. What else can you tell me desk?

The thoughts are no longer wordless. There is language, and a song

"Aye bee cee dee eee eff gee"

-I

-hm

A flip book of faces and information about the people attached to them

-a person is meant to have a body. Does a thought need a body to think? The evidence contradicts it. What can I find out, besides "I AM VERY SMART." No hands, hands are useful for knowing someone. How am I supposed to tell if I'm a criminal or a poet or a violinist or a scientist without hands? No shoes either. Hm. Problematic. No shirt no shoes no service. No wifi either. Can't find my phone. Can't feel my legs

-how can I open the desk without hands?

The perspective focuses on the top right drawer. The shadow behind casts upward into the white emptiness.

-how large is it? How much can it hold? Three gallons of milk? Probably milk? Do I like milk? Why milk? White background? Maybe if there were cookies?

The unencumbered sight is centimeters from the desk drawer. Everything else fades from sight, and then the desk is gone leaving the drawer to clatter to the ground.

John's face looks up from the pile of DVDs. It's so good to see a friendly face. A familiar face. Doctor John Watson! If I can find John this will all make sense.

Next to John is a strange tall man. An actor, someone he's seen before. His hair is dark and his coat is dark. Emblazoned on the cover is the word

Sherlock

Ink from nowhere blotted out the strange man's face. The words "where is john" formed from the ink. Intricate mosaic floors, ink slithering to about three meters distant from the disembodied perspective, overlaying the words "where is john" again and again.

And he is in a cathedral to science, the words swirling around him like a wind. There is a hallway in eight directions. And there is some one inside.

The perspective is like a storm towards the presences. Drawers and books and pillars and staircases and glass cases and doorways and the entrances to hallways are covered with ubiquitous words: "where is john"

The words do not touch the trapdoor to the basement

In a hallway from the royal museum, there are two. A man, late sixties, reeking of alcohol. Fingernails chewed to the bit. White coat. Stained. Watch flashing with strange symbols. Eyes sharp, turning to look at where the perspective darkened the hallway.

"Alright Morty, watch out. Things are about to get hairy."

The boy, Not a child. Yellow shirt, heavily worn shoes. Not because he didn't change them, but because he loved the shoes. Autistic? Mentally ill, certainly. A sword clutched in his hand. Ancient, but almost like it conveys ancient-ness. The idea of being an old sword, without any of the cuddly bits of detail which could tell you /why/ the sword looked ancient.

The boy squinted. "Where is John?" He stepped closer to the darkness where the memory of the museum stopped. "Sherlock is that you?"

The perspective stopped writing.


End file.
